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I’d never hurt anyone.
Are you sure?
I’m sure.
Then why do you think such awful things?
Because I have OCD. They’re just thoughts. They’re not real. They don’t mean anything.
But... what if they do? What if I don’t really have OCD? What if I’m a psychopath? Real psychopaths don’t worry about others, and worry is as automatic to me as breathing. Real psychopaths don’t worry about being psychopaths. I want to disappear and reread the article I have bookmarked on my phone about the differences between psychopathy and OCD, even though I have it memorized and have come to the conclusion that I am not a psychopath countless times.A classic case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Martina, my psychiatrist, said when she diagnosed me. Surely she’d be able to tell if I was a psychopath.
But what if she missed something?
She wouldn’t. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, but she treated me for years. There’s no way she’d miss something like that.
But psychopaths are charming and manipulative, aren’t they? What if you purposefully said just the right thing to convince her you have OCD?
I didn’t. I’m not a psychopath. I have OCD and this is just an intrusive thought.
But what if it’s not?
What if what if what if what if?
The anxiety is overwhelming. I can’t stay out here. I keep my head down and make my way behind the bar.
“Took you long enough to get here,” Ollie says.
I don’t bother responding. It’s loud in here, and I’m exhausted. I suppose I could’ve stayed home, but I promised Raine I’d be here, and if I didn’t show, she’d want to know why, and I don’t want to tell her.
At our best during off-season, we manage to fill about a fourth of our seats. Right now, at least half of them are occupied. I know most of the people here, but some I don’t. Groups of people are huddled around tables, heads together as they wait for the music.
“Jesus,” I say.
“I know,” Ollie says. “Your girl did good, yeah?”
“She’s not my girl,” I mumble.
“Whatever you say, Jackie.”
“Piss off.” I push through the door to the kitchen and head straight for the office, not daring to look around the kitchen in case I see a knife.
As soon as I shut myself inside the office, I press my fingers against the door, each one four times, each one with the same pressure, trying to cancel out everywhat ifwith as manyundos as I can. I should’ve told Raine that anything involving those photos would be particularly challenging for me. Then she could have warned me, and I could’ve prepared myself and planned the exposure. But I didn’t want to get in her way. I didn’t want her to hesitate with any of the changes she planned to make.
The last time I panicked about taking down those photos, Ollie put them back, saying it wasn’t worth making myself sick over.
I scan the office, but don’t see any of the photographs. I need to find them. I want to put them back. No, that’s not true. What I really want is for the thoughts to go away.
But they never go away. Not completely. Not for long, anyway.
A knock on the door startles me. I need to get myself under control, because if Ollie sees me like this, he’ll put everything back, and things will never change, and everything Raine has done will be for nothing.
“Jack? Are you in there?”
Raine.I’d really rather it was anyone else.
I take another deep breath, then turn and open the door.
“You hate it,” she says.
